Thursday

The Jackdaw of Rheims (Poem by Reverend Richard Harris Barham)

"The Jackdaw of Rheims" is a famous humorous narrative by the Reverend Richard Harris Barham (1788-1845), pictured.

The poem cleverly ridicules church dignity.

Intended by Barham, however, to produce laughter rather than be taken seriously.

In essence the poem is about a jackdaw which steals a cardinal's ring and is made a saint.

This poem was also printed in the anthology, "Traveling".

"The Jackdaw of Rheims"

The Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal's chair!Bishop and abbot and prior were there;Many a monk and many a friar,Many a knight and many a squire,With a great many more of lesser degree,In sooth a goodly company;And they served the Lord Primate on bended knee.Never, I ween,Was prouder seen,Read of in books, or dreamt of in dreams,Than the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of Rheims!

In and outThrough the motley rout,That little Jackdaw kept hopping about;Here and thereLike a dog in a fair,Over comfits and cates,And dishes and plates,Cowl and cope and rochet and pall,Mitre and crosier! He hopp'd upon all!With saucy air,He perch'd on the chairWhere, in state, the great Lord Cardinal satIn the great Lord Cardinal's great red hat;And he peer'd in the faceOf his Lordship's Grace,With a satisfied look, as if he would say,"We two are the greatest folks here to-day!"And the priests, with awe,As such freaks they saw,Said, "The Devil must be in that little Jackdaw!"

The feast was over, the board was clear'd,The flawns and the custards had all disappear'd,And six little singing-boys--dear little souls!In nice clean faces and nice white stoles,Came, in order due,Two by two,Marching that grand refectory through!A nice little boy held a golden ewer,Emboss'd and fill'd with water, as pureAs any that flows between Rheims and Namur,Which a nice little boy stood ready to catchIn a fine golden hand-basin made to match.Two nice little boys, rather more grown,Carried lavender-water, and eau de CologneAnd a nice little boy had a nice cake of soap,Worthy of washing the hands of the Pope.One little boy moreA napkin bore,Of the best white diaper, fringed with pinkAnd a Cardinal's Hat mark'd in permanent ink.The great Lord Cardinal turns at the sightOf these nice little boys dress'd all in white:From his finger he drawsHis costly turquoise;And, not thinking at all about little Jackdaws,Deposits it straightBy the side of his plate,While the nice little boys on his Eminence wait;'Till, when nobody's dreaming of any such thing,That little Jackdaw hops off with the ring!

There's a cry and a shout,And a deuce of a rout,And nobody seems to know what they're about,But the Monks have their pockets all turn'd inside out.The Friars are kneeling,And hunting, and feelingThe carpet, the floor, and the walls, and the ceiling.The Cardinal drewOff each plum-colour'd shoe,And left his red stockings exposed to the view;He peeps and he feelsIn the toes and the heels;They turn up the dishes; they turn up the plates,They take up the poker and poke out the grates,

They turn up the rugs,They examine the mugs:But, no! - no such thing;They can't find THE RING!And the Abbott declared that, "when nobody twigg'd it,Some rascal or other had popp'd in and prigg'd it!"

The Cardinal rose with a dignified look,He call'd for his candle, his bell and his book!In holy anger and pious grief,He solemnly cursed that rascally thief!He cursed him at board, he cursed him in bed;From the sole of his foot to the crown of his head;He cursed him in sleeping, that every nightHe should dream of the devil and wake in a fright;He cursed him in eating, he cursed him in drinking,He cursed him in coughing, in sneezing, in winking;He cursed him in sitting, in standing, in lying;He cursed him in walking, in riding, in flying,He cursed him in living, he cursed him in dying!--Never was heard such a terrible curse!But what gave riseTo no little surprise,Nobody seem'd one penny the worse!

The day was gone,The night came on,The Monks and the Friars they search'd till dawn;When the Sacristan saw,On crumpled claw,Come limping a poor little lame Jackdaw!No longer gay,As on yesterday;His feathers all seem'd to be turn'd the wrong way;His pinions droop'd - he could hardly stand,His head was as bald as the palm of your hand;His eye so dim,So wasted each limb,That, heedless of grammar, they all cried, "THAT'S HIM!That's the scamp that's done this scandalous thing!That's the thief that's got my Lord Cardinal's Ring!"The poor little Jackdaw,When the Monks he saw,Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw;And turn'd his bald head, as much as to say,"Pray, be so good as to walk this way!"Slower and slowerHe limp'd on before,Till they came to the back of the belfry door,Where the first thing they saw,Midst the sticks and the straw,Was the ring in the nest of that little Jackdaw!

Then the great Lord Cardinal call'd for his book,And off that terrible curse he took;The mute expressionServed in lieu of confession,And, being thus coupled with full restitution,The Jackdaw got plenary absolution!When those words were heard,That poor little birdWas so changed in a moment, 'twas really absurd.He grew sleek and fat;In addition to that,A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat!His tail waggled moreEven than before;But no longer it wagg'd with an impudent air,No longer he perch'd on the Cardinal's chair.He hopp'd now aboutWith a gait devout;At Matins, at Vespers, he never was outAnd, so far from any more pilfering deeds,He always seem'd telling the Confessor's beads.If any one lied, - or if any one swore,Or slumber'd in pray'r-time and happen'd to snore,That good JackdawWould give a great "Caw!"As much as to say, "Don't do so any more!"While many remark'd, as his manners they saw,That they "never had known such a pious Jackdaw!"He long lived the prideOf that countryside,And at last in the odour of sanctity died;When, as words were too faintHis merits to paint,The Conclave determined to make him a Saint;And on newly-made Saints and Popes, as you know,It's the custom, at Rome, new names to bestow,So they canonized him by the name of Jim Crow!

2 comments:

Anonymous
said...

Thank you for posting this. My grandmother is British, and during the 50's she went to a boarding school in England. She often got in trouble for talking after curfew, and one of the punishments was to make students stand out in the cold hallways at night and memorize poetry. This was one of the poem thats she had to memorize on such an occasion. She gave a beautiful old illustrated copy of the poem from 1908 that had belonged to my great great grandfather, so that I could learn it too.